Null Pointer

Say It Ain't So

Talking
  1. Flying Coach
  2. Moms' Dream
  3. The Garden
  4. Meow
  5. Dot
  6. Shades of Purple
  7. Violet Eyes
  8. Housework
  9. NW: Propose
  10. NW: BFF

Flying Coach

“I’ll call Dad and have him send the plane,” Matthew Wheeler told his roommate. “We can leave after your exam on Friday, or Saturday morning, and still have a whole day on the beach to admire the scenery before we have to report to Habitat for Humanity on Sunday afternoon.” Habitat was a great cause, and spring break in Miami was a sound idea. Matt just didn’t see why they had to give up the sun, sand, and pretty coeds in bikinis while they were doing good works. Service could be fun, couldn’t it?

His roommate, Winthrop Frayne, glared at him. Matt had seemed enthusiastic when Win suggested an alternative spring break, but now he was thinking about pretty girls barely dressed. And not thinking about the perks of his family’s wealth, and the responsibility it gave him to give back. Flying in a private plane from Boston to Miami to work on a charity project? How was that going to look? Like spoiled rich kids pretending they cared, that’s how. “Matt, I think you’re missing the point. It’s all about giving back. It’s most definitely not about getting laid.”

“That’s easy for you to say! You have no appreciation for the female form.”

“I have plenty of appreciation for the female form. I also have immense appreciation for the female brain, and for what it means to a child to have a home.”

Matt shrugged. “Home is a boring as hell place where you get yelled at for touching the priceless artwork Mom bought on her last trip to Sicily,” Matt replied. “I turned out fine.”

“That’s debatable,” Win joked. “And you always had a roof overhead. You always had a house, even if it didn’t feel like a home.”

“I don’t need a lecture, Mr. Honorable. I was kidding. I already agreed to go work on this Habitat House with you. Why am I suddenly public enemy number one? Just because I’d like to see a couple swimsuit models drop by the construction site? I’m a twenty-year-old male. Sue me.”

“It’s not about the swimsuit models. I mean it is—you won’t get very far in your business ambitions if you get sued for violating Equal Opportunity laws because you only care about women if they’re half-dressed.”

“That’s not true! I care about them even more if they’re not dressed at all,” Matt joked.

“Matt, stop being a jerk. I know you can think with something other than your …hormones. Forget the models for a minute. You’re wealthy, like seriously wealthy. Paparazzi following your movements, documenting your actions wealthy. I’m not from a mega-rich family, like you, but compared to the family we’re helping build this place for, I’m well-off, too. We can’t show up looking like a pair of spoiled rich brats trying to show how compassionate we are when all we really care about is swimsuit models.”

Matt sat on his bed. “This is about the plane. You hate the plane.”

“Yes, it’s about the plane.”

“For someone who saves like you do, I’d think you’d be in favor of taking the plane. It’s more comfortable, it’s free, Gwen will serve us scotch in those tiny little bottles—I’m sure she can even find you that appletini crap you like—and we can go whenever we want, without layovers and delays. Or we could just fly coach. Spend all our free time in airport lines, waste all our spending money for the semester on airfare that won’t get us there when we want, or home on time.”

“There’s a six a.m. flight out of Logan Saturday morning that still has $99 seats,” Win responded, ignoring his roommate’s color commentary on the perks of flying private.

Six a.m.? We’d have to be at the airport before dawn! And those seats are probably coach. I’m too tall for coach.”

“So it really is all about you,” Win said. It wasn’t an accusation, or a taunt, just a statement, delivered in a completely calm and level tone of voice.

“It is not all about me!” If there was one thing Matt hated, it was being accused of being selfish. He was giving up spring break in the Keys with the rest of his fraternity to build a house for Habitat for Humanity, for crying out loud!

“Then I’ll book our seats,” Win replied, grabbing his bag and his coat and heading off to his next class.

“Crap,” Matt muttered as the door closed behind his roommate. “How does he always win?”

~

Moms' Dream

Helen slid into the booth opposite her long-time friend, Carolyn Lynch. “I had the strangest dream last night.”

“I wish I’d slept long enough to dream last night,” Carolyn replied wistfully.

“The twins still aren’t sleeping through the night?”

“Not yet. And they don’t wake up at the same time. That’s good, I guess. I certainly couldn’t feed them both at once, but back to back would be nice, instead of letting me think I can go back to sleep.”

“Have you considered a bottle?” Helen asked.

“Oh, Helen! You know how important they say breastfeeding is for young children.”

“‘They’ don’t have twins to feed at 4 a.m., either. One bottle a day—or night—won’t kill the little rascals and then Ed could get up and you could sleep.”

“Ed works so hard to provide for all of us. He needs his sleep.”

Helen schooled her features before her expression made her opinion obvious. Peter worked hard to provide for his family, too. She’d still made him get up with the babies. But it wasn’t her place to get involved in how Carolyn and Ed managed their private life.

“Anyway, you had a strange dream last night?” Carolyn said. “Tell me about it. I’ll dream—and sleep—vicariously, though you.”

“Well, it started out normally, enough, with me hurrying the kids out the door before they missed the bus. It was a close call, as it always is. But, once the kids left for school, it got strange. I got out a pack of Luckys, a bottle of Jack Daniels, and a dime store novel. To make matters worse, I completely lost track of time. The kids got home from school before I knew it and I barely had time to hide the smokes and booze. They were hungry, but I didn’t have any snacks ready, so I told them to go do their homework. Trixie started crying that she didn’t have any and she wanted a snack, and I got all stressed out, because I knew Peter would be home soon, and I didn’t have a plan for dinner. Brian took Trixie off somewhere, thankfully, and I opened the freezer. There were all sorts of packaged foods in there, and I thought, ‘Thank goodness for Stouffer’s and Sara Lee,’ and cooked up something—I don’t even know what—real quick before Peter got home. And no one complained. Not even Mart. My whole family acted like they wouldn’t know home cooking if it bit them, especially Mart. Can you believe it?”

Carolyn laughed right out loud. “You, Helen Belden, a pack-a-day closet drunk, forgetting her wifely duties and cooking processed foods? That’d be the day.”

Helen giggled. “With my children, some days I think it’s only a matter of time. Did you hear? Trixie thought she saw someone strange on the green while they were waiting for the bus home from school on Tuesday. Mart got to teasing her, as he does, about how she’s always seeing something ‘strange’ or ‘mysterious’. He dared her to prove it. So off they went after this stranger—all the way to Hawthorne Street, no less! And poor Brian knows he’s supposed to look after them, so he trailed after them to try to stop them and they all missed the bus. They never did find Trixie’s mystery person, and they ended up walking the whole way home. They told me they didn’t want to bother their father at the bank.”

Carolyn laughed. “Oh Helen, your trio are just precious.”

“As precious as the gray hair they’re giving me,” Helen grumbled, but she smiled. She loved her kids dearly and wouldn’t give them up for anything.

~

The Garden

Helen Belden sank into one of the chairs at the kitchen table. She sighed wearily. “I’m getting too old for this.”

Her husband continued to read the newspaper, as though she hadn’t spoken. His hearing hasn’t gotten that bad yet, Helen thought to herself.

“Gardening is way too much work. Next year I'm just going to have that space dug out and put in a swimming pool.”

“Whatever your heart desires, dearest,” Peter replied.

Helen stamped her foot. “You’re not listening to me!” She accused.

“Of course I am, Helen. You just said the garden is too much work and you want to put in a swimming pool instead. I love the vegetables you grow and I think you enjoy the Garden Club, but I know how much effort you put into it. I don’t want you to give up the garden. Fresh, free, vegetables that taste better than what I could buy at the store is great for me—but I don’t have to plant and weed and water and harvest and can. I know the kids say they’ll help, but they don’t always. If it’s too much work, or you’d just rather have that swimming pool, I understand. As long as we put in a hot tub, too,” Peter told her with a waggle of his eyebrows. “Remember that beach resort we went to for our anniversary?”

Helen blushed. Yes, she recalled it.

Peter set down the paper and stood up, walking over to his wife and gently massaging her shoulders. “I’ll water the garden in the mornings, before I go to the bank, and I’ll remind the kids that they’re supposed to be helping.”

“They mean well, but they’re so busy these days. I’d be sterner about them doing their chores if they weren’t preparing fundraisers for charities every time I turn around.”

“I know, right? Everyone told us, when you were pregnant with Brian, how important discipline was, and how we couldn’t spoil the children or they’d grow up to be entitled hoodlums. No one ever mentioned what we ought to do if our children turned out to be good people.”

~

Meow

Diana was sad. I don’t know why. Why is a human people thing; I don’t understand it. I never found myself needing a why, not once, but human people need a why for everything. Humans are weird. But Di is nice, and I don’t like to see any one sad. So I went over. I don’t know what it is about sad humans, but if you go put your head in their lap and look at them with the big eyes and give just a little wag of the tail, and then just wait, and they get less sad. At least my people do. Sometimes they just sit there, sometimes they put their paws on my head, or pat me, or rough my ears. Sometimes it only takes a moment; sometimes I have to stay there for a really long time. But it always works.

I put my head on her lap. “Reddy!” She yelled and pushed me away.

That was my fault. Di’s particular about dog hair on her clothes. That’s the cats’ fault. Di has cats in her pack. They’ve brainwashed her. I understand, I suppose. I don’t like it when Trixie and Mart and Bobby come home with cat hair all over their clothes, either. Consorting with the enemy! So I should’ve known better than to put my head on her clothes.

So I put my head on the couch beside her, and did the looking up thing, and wagged my tail a little. Nothing. Cat people. I tried the little noise trick. She yelled at me again. “Be quiet, Reddy!”

I really didn’t want Di to be sad. The lengths I go to for humans. Di’s a cat person, so…. I put my head on the couch and did the looking up thing and said it. “Meow.”

“Go away, Reddy!”

Mart came back from the kitchen then, and sat next to Di. He was hungry, and worried, but mostly hungry. I think he’s part dog. He’s like me—always room for more. I looked at Mart and then at Di, wagged my tail a little and tried once more. “Meow.”

“If you’re going to bark, go outside!” Mart ordered. Bark? Does the guy not know the difference between ‘woof’ and ‘meow’? Good grief! So I went out. Mart usually makes Di happy anyway. And I have my dignity. Even for Di, I’m only saying “Meow” twice.

Larry, Terry, and Bobby were in the yard. Larry and Terry aren’t brainwashed by the cats. They don’t mind dog hair or playing with me and Bobby. And they were getting ready to play tag. Tag’s a great game. It’s like fetch, but better, because the “sticks” can throw themselves, so everyone gets to play. I always feel bad for the human when we play fetch. They have to just stand there and throw the stick. Boring!

Tag’s better. Everybody is a stick. And you have to not get fetched. The fetcher is the one making the most noise. I think. Sometimes they’re all making a bunch of noise and it’s hard to tell who is the loudest, but they always seem to know who is the fetcher. It’s probably a why thing.

I think Bobby’s going to be the first fetcher. His voice has that sound in it that means he’s happy but he’s pretending he’s not. He usually sounds like that when he has to be the first fetcher, or Moms makes him feed me kibble (though he never sounds like that when he’s sharing dinner with me; humans are weird like that).

Oh, there they go. Yes, Bobby’s making the most noise, so he must be the fetcher. And he’s coming this way. I got to go!

~

Dot

“Trixie, what am I supposed to say to a question like that? You’re beautiful. I love you. You don’t believe me. That breaks my heart. Dot’s beautiful, too. I like her—as a person. I don’t love her. You ask me questions like this as though you expect me to say, ‘You’re right, Trix. Dot is prettier than you.’ Conventionally speaking that might be true, and I stress might. But you’re assuming my first priority is conventional beauty. I want a woman with a heart forgiving enough to weather my temper. I want a woman with a personality bright enough to reach the darkest places my past has put in my soul. I want more brains than boobs. Yes, Dot is attractive. But you are just as attractive. I want you. I chose you, remember? You’re my special girl.”

Trixie was silent for a moment and then she put her two closed fists together in front of her body. “I don’t meet your criteria,” she said softly.

“My criteria?” Jim echoed, puzzled. Of course she did!

“The brain is about the size of your two closed fists, right?” She gestured toward herself—toward her chest, Jim realized after a minute—with her fists. She shrugged. “It’s no contest.”

Jim laughed and scooped her up into his lap. “What am I going to do with you?” He asked rhetorically, nibbling on her neck.

“Love me forever?” She asked hopefully, arching into him.

“Gladly,” he agreed.

Later, as he kissed and nuzzled her breasts, he glanced up. Trixie immediately lifted her head to see why he’d stopped. He smirked at her. “I do like boobs, you know!”

“Frayne!” Trixie burst out laughing and pushed his head back down against her chest.

~

Shades of Purple

“Mart, sit down. We need to talk.”

Mart sat beside his plainly worried wife, wondering what on earth was going on. “Di, sweetie, what is it?”

She had to just blurt it out, or she’d say nothing. “Mart, I…IthinkI’mpregnant.”

“You think you’re…. You do? That’s great!” Mart enthused as his brain caught up to her words. “Isn’t it? Why are you so worried, Di?”

“Well, it’s just, we didn’t plan this. We talked about waiting between kids.”

Mart nodded. “And then we talked about how you can’t take the Pill while you’re nursing. And then we talked about how neither of us really likes condoms. We both knew the possible consequences.”

“So you’re okay with it, if I’m pregnant?”

“I’m thrilled, Diana. Ecstatic. ‘If?’ I thought you said we were pregnant? Haven’t you taken the test?”

Di shook her head. “We don’t have any in the house. We were waiting between kids, remember? I said I think we’re pregnant.”

“Why?” Mart asked, before wondering if he wanted to know. It probably had something to do with her cycle. It was true she hadn’t been in that mood in a while but he’d attributed that to lingering effects of her previous pregnancy.

“Honey was showing me some fabric samples for the dress she’s making me for the Ten Acres fundraiser. The lavender, lilac, and thistle all looked kind of the same to me.

“That happened to you during the first trimester with Johnny—you said you couldn’t paint at all because the shades all looked the same.”

“Exactly. I’ll buy a more objective test tomorrow, I promise.”

“Let me know,” Mart agreed, “though I think you’re right. You wanted radishes on your salad on Sunday, remember? You didn’t like radishes until you were pregnant, and then you had stopped eating them again after Johnny was born, until this weekend.”

“That’s true. If you ever give up teaching, you could join our sisters’ sleuthing firm.”

“No thank you,” Mart said, shaking his head firmly. “I will leave all sleuthing, that doesn’t involve you, to them.”

~

Violet Eyes

“What’s wrong, sweetie?” Diana asked her husband, hearing him growl under his breath as he came in the door from work.

“I’m just tired of all the interviews that are supposed to be about your art, or teaching, or you being the youngest curator ever appointed at the Museum, but end up just being a giant implication that I married you for the gorgeous violet eyes.”

Mart sank down on the couch. “Honestly, I’m not sure which of us should be more offended by the implication. I mean you have every right to be offended. They keep acting like all you’ve got going for you are your looks and your violet eyes. It’s not as though people who are fit to judge have called you ‘the best new artist in the state of New York this year’. It’s not as though you were the art teacher of the student who just got a full scholarship to the best fine arts school in the country. It’s not as if you are not only the youngest person to ever be named head curator at the Sleepyside Museum, but the first person under fifty, and the first woman. No, clearly all you have going for you are those captivating eyes.”

Di, who had come to peace with the implication, replied, “Well, those violet eyes have held you captive a time or two, I believe.”

“Oh, they’re bewitching, no doubt,” Mart agreed, and she recognized the fire burning in the back of his eyes, one that sent a delicious shiver down her spine. “But violet eyes are nothing special, if there’s no heart or brain behind them. I didn’t marry you just because you are stunningly gorgeous. I married you because you are smart, and funny, and an awesome artist, and so amazingly compassionate. Yet, every interviewer seems to think I’m just so shallow that all it takes is a pretty face.”

“So refuse the interviews,” Di replied. “If they bother you so much. They can make those implications to me. I’ll put them in their place, if necessary.”

“I can’t,” Mart said with a sigh. “I know how reporters are. I am one. They have to get a story, and the more sellable the story…. If I refuse an interview, the headline will be ‘Husband of Up-and-Coming Artist Refuses to Speak on Wife’s Artistic Career’, and they’ll imply—they can’t come right out and say it, but they can pose a question that will make most people assume the answer is yes—that I don’t think women should work outside the home and certainly shouldn’t be more successful than their male counterparts. Which still makes me appear shallow and unenlightened.”

“So you know all the tricks,” Di reminded him. “Use them against the reporters. If they start talking violet eyes when they’re supposed to be talking about the next gallery showing, then just answer with something simple and redirect them. ‘My wife’s eyes are gorgeous; so is her newest piece, which will be showcased…’. That’s what I do when the reporters get off-topic.”

~

Housework

“Trix, we’d better break out the vacuum and load up the dishwasher when we get back from this ride with the gang,” Jim observed. “With all the rain, and us so busy this week, our house is looking a little…worn.”

“We can’t just call it cozy?” Trixie asked with a grin at her husband.

He frowned. “No.”

She laughed. “Okay. Honey and I will just have to find a mystery on this ride.”

“Trixie!”

“What?”

“It’s just running the dishwasher and the vacuum.”

“So I’m supposed to start dancing and screaming, ‘Housework? Yay!’, is that what you’re telling me?” She asked, raising her arms and swaying to invisible music. She dropped her arms and made a face at her husband. “You want that, you’d better hire a maid.”

Jim’s lips twitched as he tried to keep the grin off his face. He raised an eyebrow. “What if I have fantasies about you in a white apron, flour on your freckles, and a dust cloth in hand?”

“Gleeps, Frayne. Your mind is twisted. Your fantasies are gonna keep me up at night.”

Jim chuckled. “Isn’t that the point?”

Trixie blushed. “That wasn’t what I meant.”

Jim crossed to her, sliding warm hands down her spine as he hugged her. “If you’re a good girl and get all your chores done this morning, I’ll make it worth your while,” he whispered teasingly in her ear.

“And if I’m a very, very, bad girl?” Trixie replied, running a hand down his chest.

Jim groaned. “I might forget about the ride altogether. Trixie, stop that!” Jim scolded as her fingers danced down his abdomen. “You know I can’t think when you do that.”

“Is that so, Dr. Frayne? I’ll just have to investigate that statement in more detail later on. If you’re a good boy and get all your chores done.” With a giggle, Trixie turned and headed out the door. They were going to be late if they kept teasing each other, and she’d get blamed for it, when it was entirely Jim’s fault.

Jim hurried to catch up to her, and then stumbled over a root in the path, because his eyes were on her backside and not the path. “If you’re a good boy and you don’t fall off your horse because you’re staring at my butt again,” Trixie amended under her breath.

Jim just grinned. He knew where her eyes wandered when he was riding toward the front of the group, but saw no reason to add insult to injury this morning when there was already housework to be done.

~

NW: Propose

Admittedly, the “little Podunk town” referred to in the below scene and the one intended are different, and Jim can only utter these words because this scene takes place in Never Were, one of my AUs, but Jo Darnell insists such words were uttered, once upon a time.

When Win and Jo arrived at the Smith Farm for Christmas break, they insisted Mrs. Smith sit down, since she’d clearly been baking all day.

“But the kitchen’s all a mess,” the old woman fretted.

“We’ll clean it up,” Win promised.

“And we’ll make the cocoa before the little ones get here,” Jo agreed. They had at least an hour before the rest of the Darnells would arrive.

Mary finally sat down, clucking about parents who still raised their children right, as Win and Jo took over in the kitchen.

“When are you going to ask her to marry you?” Jo asked Win quietly as they packed up the cookies into tins.

Win considered acting like he didn’t know that Jo meant Trixie, but knew she’d just roll her eyes at him. “In a hurry much? We’ve only been dating for six months!”

Jo laughed at him. “This from the guy who spent his first winter here moaning to me about how he wished Trixie had just left him alone in his Uncle's house, because then he wouldn’t be missing her and grieving what never could’ve been so badly. The guy who tried to convince me a cattle boat wouldn’t have been so bad. You wanted to travel; see the world anyway. You went on, if you recall. Something about being snowed into this little Podunk town and how it stinks. Though for some inexplicable reason, little Podunk towns named Sleepyside don’t suck. You love her. You have for almost a decade. It’s past time you proposed.”

“And she’ll say yes to a guy she barely knows because?”

“Because she loves you. This is the girl who convinced her parents to let her chase a runaway across half the state when she was thirteen for you. This is the woman who took you with her to talk to her parents about what she wanted from her future.”

“For moral support.”

“Yes, but, Win, trust me on this. A girl does not bring a guy with her to a conversation like that unless she sees him in her future. She’ll say ‘yes’. All you have to do is ask.”

“And buy a ring. Preferably one that fits. For a woman who doesn’t wear jewelry. I don’t think Trixie even knows her ring size. I certainly don’t. I’m not good at subtlety, either, so, if I try to find out, it’ll be pretty obvious what I’m after.”

“Ask Honey. It’s a best friend’s job to know things like ring size. And if Honey doesn’t know Trixie’s size, she’ll find some innocent way to get it.”

~

NW: BFF

“Dot, oh yeah, sure. Dot is my BFF!”

Jim’s head snapped up, hearing his fiancée’s claim. He only knew of one “Dot” in her life, and they were definitely not besties. Frenemies, maybe.

She had warned him she would be working at this event, and they’d talked before – often, both in practical and philosophical terms – about the necessity of deception, the reality of lies. He just was glad he hadn’t been standing beside her. He would never be able to school his face as well as she did. His surprise would have been plain, had he been standing beside her when she claimed Dot was her best friend in the world.

Of course, Trixie knew him as well as he knew himself. She’d know that, too. She expected him to understand about her work—he was the only person in her life who had always encouraged her pursuit of her profession—but she wouldn’t expect him to be a part of it, or to have her same passion for it. Likewise, he didn’t expect her to be passionate about his fields, only supportive of his career.

Sometimes, Jim wondered if things would have been quite so simple for them if he had been in Sleepyside the whole time. She’d told him about almost getting kidnapped—or worse—by the trailer thieves he helped to fix. Eventually, he’d gotten the story about the diamond incident out of her. Another just-in-time rescue. Hearing about them a decade later, he could see how she’d learned from the two situations. In the heat of the moment, he might have reacted much as her family had. From fear, from love that would rather hold on too tight than risk loss. He couldn’t have taken another loss then, not after losing his mother and father so close together and so young.

He could picture it, the suffocating fear making him lash out, making him try to control things that weren’t his to control—making him try to control her. She’d have told him it was what she had to do, and he’d have told her she couldn’t. They’d have fought, his temper getting the best of him first, but hers not far behind. Redheads had the fame, but no corner on the temper market, he’d learned in their few fights. And he might have lost her anyway, if he didn’t come to his senses in time.

When Trixie made her way back to him he arched one ginger brow. “When do I get to meet your BFF 'Dot'?”

Trixie shrugged. “Remind me to PM her tonight. If she’s not involved, there’s going to be hell to pay, for both of us, and her husband’s even more involved than I thought. If she is involved, I need to know how deep she’s in.”

“I never thought I’d grow up to be a personal assistant to a world-famous detective,” he confessed when they left the event that evening

“You’re not,” Trixie retorted. “You’re the more organized husband of a barely up-and-coming private investigator who never thought she’d grow up to get married to a nationally renowned adolescent psychologist and educator.”

“Touché.”

~

Author's Notes:

In January of 2015 someone started a thread at Jix, inviting us all to consider “Things the Characters Would Never Say”. We ended up with a list of almost a hundred things that would never be uttered. Thank you to all who participated in the “Things the Characters Would Never Say” thread on the board. I have a spreadsheet of all of them, so there’s always a chance there will be a Say It Ain’t So 2.0. Particular thanks go to Anna who offered one you won’t see here, because it has already been woven into a future story. Thanks also to my editor, Julia. Header image found here. Divider image found here.